Part 10
To say truth, I do not know why I should wish to get rid of my two horsemen, especially the one on the white horse. Wouvermans always had a white horse in all his pictures; and I do not see why I should not put my signature, my emblem, my monogram, in my paper and ink pictures as well as any painter of them all. I am not sure that other authors do not do the same thing—that Lytton has not always, or very nearly, a philosophizing libertine—Dickens, a very charming young girl, with dear little pockets; and Lever a bold dragoon. Nevertheless, upon my life, if I can help it, we will not have in this work the two horsemen and the white horse; albeit, in after times—when my name is placed with Homer and Shakespeare, or in any other more likely position—they may arise serious and acrimonious disputes as to the real authorship of the book, from its wanting my own peculiar and distinctive mark and characteristic.
But here, while writing about plagiarism, I have been myself a plagiary; and it shall not remain without acknowledgment, having suffered somewhat in that sort myself. Here, my excellent friend, Leigh Hunt, soul of mild goodness, honest truth, and gentle brightness! I acknowledge that I stole from you the defensive image of Wouverman’s white horse, which you incautiously put within my reach, on one bright night of long, dreamy conversation, when our ideas of many things, wide as the poles asunder, met suddenly without clashing, or produced but a cool, quiet spark—as the white stones which children rub together in dark corners emit a soft phosphorescent gleam, that serves but to light their little noses.”[23]
I hold no brief for James. I cannot assert truthfully that I am particularly well acquainted with more than four or five of his numerous books, although I remember with delight the perusal of some of them when I was a boy, reading for the story alone. But I am confident that he had his merits, and that much of the abuse showered upon him by critics has been undeserved; that he was a careful and conscientious writer whose novels are fit to be read, and that while he may no longer be ranked among “the best sellers”, he deserves a high place of honor among those who have entertained, amused and instructed their fellow men. It is only about two years ago that the Routledges of London considered it wise to begin the new career of their house by re-issuing in twenty-five volumes the historical novels, and cheaper reproductions are widely circulated. In a recent number of a New York magazine the editor says that “the fact is that James has always had a big public of his own—the public in fact that does _not_ consult the ‘Dictionary of National Biography’”—referring to the disparaging article in the Dictionary about which I will have something to say later on. There are authors who are always praised by the critics but ignored by the proletariat of readers; there are authors whom the critics affect to despise but who have many readers whose judgments are not embalmed in print. James seems to belong to the last-mentioned class. Yet few are acquainted with the man himself, and I have thought that it might not be amiss to give a short account of him, referring to the estimates of his character and ability by those of his own time and also to some autograph letters of his which are in my possession and which have not been published.
The details of his life are not very well known; it was not a stirring or an eventful one. It was the life of a quiet, dignified and unostentatious man of letters, unmarked by fierce controversies and wholly devoid of domestic troubles. If his reputation has not long survived him among the critical it is because of a law of literature which Mr. Brander Matthews says is inexorable and universal. The man who has the gift of story telling and nothing else, who is devoid of humor, who does not possess the power of making character, who is a “spinner of yarns” only, has no staying power, and “however immense his immediate popularity may be, he sinks into oblivion almost as soon as he ceases to produce”.[24] James seems to have had only in a small degree “the power of making character”, and although he had a sense of humor, it manifests itself in his novels only in a mildly unobtrusive way.
George Payne Rainsford James was born in George Street, Hanover Square, London, on August 9th, 1799. His father was a physician who had seen service in the navy and was in America during the Revolution, serving in Benedict Arnold’s descent on Connecticut. The son of the novelist, who is still living in Wisconsin, tells me that his grandfather (as he hinted) shot a man with his own hands to stop the atrocities of the siege in which Ledyard fell. The physician was also in the vessel which brought Rodney the news of De Grasse and enabled him to win the great naval victory which assisted England to make peace creditably. His paternal grandfather was Dr. Robert James, whose “powders” for curing fevers enjoyed great celebrity at one time,[25] but his chief title to fame is that he was admired by Samuel Johnson who said of him, “no man brings more mind to his profession.”[26] I regret that there is a cruel insinuation by the great personage which implies that Doctor Robert was not sober for twenty years, but there is some doubt whether Johnson was really referring to James.[27] Those were days of free indulgence, and much may be pardoned; at all events, no one could ever accuse the grandson of such an offence.
Young George attended the school of the Reverend William Carmalt at Putney, but he was not fortunate enough to have the advantage of a university education, which despite the sneers of those who never attended a university, is an important element in the life of any man who devotes himself to literature. It is a great corrective, and those who regard the subject from a point of view wholly utilitarian do not comprehend in the least degree what is meant by it. James soon developed a fondness for the study of languages, not only what are called “the classics,” but of Persian and Arabic although he says he “sadly failed in mastering Arabic.” This taste of his may account in part for his extensive vocabulary, and it may be that his diffuseness, so much criticised, was due in some degree to his ready command of an unusual number of words. In his younger days, he studied medicine, as might have been expected, but his inclination was in a different direction. He wanted to go into the navy, but says Mr. C. L. James, “his father, who had a sailor’s experience and manners, said, ‘you may go into the army if you like—it’s the life of a dog; but the navy is the life of a d——d dog, and you shan’t try it.’”
He did accordingly go into the army for a short time during the “One Hundred Days,” and was wounded in one of the slight actions which followed Waterloo; but he never rose beyond the rank of lieutenant. His son writes: “The British and Prussian forces were disposed all along the frontier to guard every point, and Wellington, with whom my father was acquainted, did not like the arrangement—it was Blucher’s. When Napoleon crossed the Sambre at Charlevoi, the Duke saw his purpose of taking Quatre Bras, between the English and Prussians, so he sent word to all his own detachments to fall in, ‘running as to a fire.’*** My father’s company was among those too late for the great battle. I have heard him tell how the cuirassiers lay piled up, men and horses, to the tops of lofty hedges.*** My father also said that he saw a dead cuirassier behind our lines, showing there must have been a time when they actually pierced the allied centre. When he was on the field they were bringing in French prisoners, who would have been massacred by the Prussians but that English soldiers guarded them. Many years afterwards the Duke of Wellington said to my father, in his abrupt way, ‘You were at Waterloo, I think?’ ‘No,’ he replied ‘I am sorry to say.’ ‘Why sorry to say,’ rejoined Wellington, ‘if you had been there, you might not have been here.’ Another of his anecdotes about the Duke is that just after Waterloo, where it is well known that a great part of the allied army was wholly routed, some officers were talking about who ‘ran’, when Wellington, who had been quietly listening to these unhopeful personalities, cut in thus: ‘Run! who wouldn’t have run under a fire like that? I am sure I should—if I had known any place to run to.’”
One incident in his army life is of interest. Some thirty years ago Mr. Maunsell B. Field, a gentleman whose title to fame is somewhat dubious, published a book called “Memories of Many Men.” He knew James well, and collaborated with him in one of his books—“Adrian, or the Clouds of the Mind.” Mr. Field says, after mentioning an alleged fact which is not a fact, viz: that James was taken prisoner before the battle of Waterloo and detained until after the battle, “The incident which occurred during his confinement there cast a gloom upon the rest of his life. For some cause which he never explained to me, he became engaged in a duel with a French officer. He escaped unhurt himself, but wounded his adversary who died, after lingering for months. I have still in my possession the old-fashioned pistols with which this duel was fought, which my deceased friend presented to me at the time of our early acquaintance.”[28] Field’s story is made up in a ridiculously inaccurate way. James was not captured before Waterloo, or after it, for that matter. During his later travels he became involved in a difficulty with a French officer and found himself compelled, according to the absurd practice of the time, to fight a duel with him. The Frenchman was not killed, but only wounded in the arm, and the duel was fought with swords, not with pistols! The truth is, that after the sword-duel, James was challenged to fight again with pistols. Mr. C. L. James writes me thus: “It made him (G. P. R. James) very angry; and, being a good shot then, he felt confident of the result if he should accept but said he would put the point of honor to the French officer’s regiment. They replied by inviting him to dine at the mess. On receiving this message, he took up his pistols which were ready, loaded, saying ‘then we shall have no use for these,’ and at that moment one of them went off, sending the bullet through the floor close to his foot, though he felt sure they were not cocked.” Mr. Field undoubtedly meant to tell the truth, but his reminiscences cannot be relied upon in regard to James or to any one else.
As a lad of seventeen he wrote a number of sketches, afterwards published under the title of “A String of Pearls,” which were rather free translations from the oriental tales he had studied so fondly.[29] He travelled extensively for those times, visiting France and Spain soon after the abdication of Napoleon. These early travels and adventures supplied him with the idea of _Morley Ernstein_. He became acquainted with Cuvier and other men of eminence, and it is gratifying to Americans to know that Washington Irving liked him and gave him encouragement. It has been said that his first work was the _Life of Edward the Black Prince_, said to have been produced in 1822, but one of my letters, written in 1835, indicates that it was not produced earlier than 1836. The son thinks it must have been written before 1830. He had a disposition to enter political life, but he abandoned the idea in 1827. He was a mild Tory. His ambition was in the direction of a diplomatic career. His father had some influence with Lord Liverpool, who offered him the post of Secretary to an Embassy to China,—a temporary appointment only, and one which promised him no preferment. It was declined, and a week later Lord Liverpool died suddenly.
In 1828 he married the daughter of Honoratus Leigh Thomas, an eminent physician of that day. She survived her husband exactly thirty-one years, dying at Eau Claire, Wisconsin, on June 9th, 1891. The assertion made in some accounts of him that James married in the United States is wholly untrue. After the marriage, they lived in France, Italy and Scotland.
In 1825 he wrote his first novel, _Richelieu_, which was not published until 1829. Regarded by many as the best of his novels, it is an excellent example of his strength and of his weakness. It deals with elementary emotions, and makes but slight attempts to portray character except in the simplest and most obvious way. Although it bears the name of the great Cardinal, it might as well have been called “Louis XIII”, or “Chavigni,” or “The Count de Blenau”, for Richelieu himself appears but seldom on the scene and is not the hero or the central figure. The narrative runs briskly on, plentifully seasoned with deeds of daring and hairbreadth escapes, culminating in the familiar climax of the almost miraculous arrival of a pardon when the hero has bared his neck to receive the axe of the executioner. It is evident from the outset that the nobleman whose fortunes are the subject of the story and the conventional lady of his love will marry and “be happy ever after.” The abundant historical and antiquarian padding is admirably devised and executed, well placed and never tiresome. The tale is skilfully constructed and if it teaches any lesson, it is that of courage, truth, honor and loyalty. Our modern “historical novels” are in many respects distinctly inferior to _Richelieu_. Singularly enough, he did not include it in the revised edition of his Works.
After reading _Richelieu_, Sir Walter Scott advised him to adopt literature as a profession, and as he imitated Scott, the value of the advice is not to be underestimated. As Mr. Field’s story goes, James had kept the manuscript concealed from his father, but he managed to get an introduction to Scott, who promised to give him his opinion. After six months no news had come from Scotland. James was riding one day in Bond Street, when, his horse shying, his carriage was pressed against another. The occupant of the other carriage was Scott, and he invited James to call upon him. To his surprise and delight, Scott praised the book highly, and wrote his opinion, which enabled the lucky author to find a publisher, to whom he sold the copyright for a song. In his General Preface to the Works (1844–1849) James himself gives a very different account of the matter. He says that a friend showed Sir Walter one volume of a romance written long before, and he himself sent a letter to Scott asking advice in regard to persevering in a literary career. Some months passed, and James “felt somewhat mortified and a good deal grieved” at receiving no response, but one day, on returning from the country to London, he found a packet on his table containing the volume and a note. “The opinion expressed in that note” adds James “was more favourable than I had ever expected, and certainly more favourable than I deserved; for Sir Walter was one of the most lenient of critics, especially to the young. However, it told me to persevere, and I did so.”[30] Irving and Scott united in encouraging him to produce his next novel, _Darnley_, with another great Cardinal as a principal character. _Darnley_ was sketched and drafted at Montreuil-sur-Mer in December, 1828, and was completed in a few months. It is still popular with readers of fiction and has much of the charm which pervades its predecessor. James lived for a time at Evreux, and _De l’Orme_, written there in 1829, appeared in 1830. _Philip Augustus_ was produced in less than seven weeks, and was published in 1831. Under William IV he was appointed Historiographer Royal, and published several pamphlets officially.[31] In 1842 he lived at Walmer, and was frequently a guest of the Duke of Wellington at Walmer Castle—a fact jocosely mentioned in the _Life of Charles Lever_, where it is recorded that Lever said to McGlashan that he must beware of James, who had become dangerous from irritation, but suggested that as James had been dining twice a week with the Duke, “he had eaten himself into a more than ordinary bilious temper.”[32] In 1845 he went to Germany, partly for recreation and partly to obtain information to be used in the _History of Richard Cœur de Lion_, upon which he was then engaged. The illness of his children detained him for a year; and at Karlsruhe and Baden-Baden he wrote _Heidelberg_ and the _Castle of Ehrenstein_. On his return to England he lived for some time near Farnham, Surrey, where he wrote voluminously. He was accustomed to rise at five in the morning, to write with his own hand until nine, and later in the day to dictate to an amanuensis, walking to and fro meanwhile.
Towards 1850 he decided to leave England and go to America. His original intention was to settle in Canada. He had met with severe pecuniary reverses. The collected edition of his works was illustrated with steel engravings, but after a few volumes had appeared the publisher failed. The engraver sued James as a partner in the enterprise, and poor James had to pay several thousand pounds. In this plight he sought his friend, the Duke of Northumberland, who endeavored to dissuade him from leaving England and offered him a signed check, with the amount left blank, asking him to accept it and fill the blank himself. To his credit, James declined the generous gift.[33]
When he reached New York in July, 1850, he took lodgings in the old New York Hotel. He had many letters of introduction, including one to Horace Greeley, who, he said, had “the head of a Socrates and the face of a baby.” Hotel life proving unsatisfactory, he rented Charles Astor Bristed’s house at Hell Gate, opposite Astoria. Of his many troubles in getting into his new home, he wrote an amusing account in verse which Mr. Field prints.[34] Field tells a story of a wealthy man of New York who was introduced to James, and remarked that he was a great admirer of the works, that he believed he had read all that were published, and that there was one “which he vastly preferred to all the others.” “And which is that?” asked James. “The Last Days of Pompeii,” was the answer. “That is Bulwer’s, not mine,” replied the mortified novelist. He also tells of a lady who found in a village library what she supposed to be a copy of an English edition of one of James’s novels in two volumes. She read them with much enjoyment, and did not discover until she had finished them, that she had been reading the first volume of one and the second volume of another. With admirable tact and discretion Field told this to James, and says “he winced under it.”
In 1851 he hired a furnished house at Stockbridge, Massachusetts, and later he bought property there, making some laudable efforts at farming, Mr. Field says:
“In the meantime he was also industriously pegging away at book-making, although to the casual observer he appeared to be the least occupied man in the place. He never did any literary work after eleven o’clock A. M. until evening. He was not accustomed to put his own hand to paper, when composing, but always employed an amanuensis. At this time he had in his service in that capacity the brother of an Irish baronet, who spoke and wrote English, French, German and Italian, and whom I had procured for him at the modest stipend of five dollars a week. When James was dictating, he always kept a paper of snuff upon the table on which his secretary wrote, and he would stride up and down the room, stopping every few minutes for a fresh supply of the titillating powder. He never looked at the manuscript, or made any corrections except upon proof-sheets.”
During that summer James and Field produced _Adrian_, finishing it in five weeks. Notwithstanding Field’s assertion that “it was very kindly received by the critics,” it does not appear to have enjoyed any marked success.
In 1852 he was appointed British Consul at Norfolk, Virginia. He was not contented there, as we may see from his letters; but he received many kindnesses, and on the last night he spent in the United States he spoke to Field of the Virginians, as “a warm hearted people.” His health suffered and his spirits also; the yellow fever raged in the city and caused him great trouble and anxiety. While in the United States he wrote _Ticonderoga_, _The Old Dominion_, and other novels; his fertile pen was always busy. His latest work was _The Cavalier_, published in 1859. In 1856 the Consulate was removed to Richmond. At his earnest request he was transferred from Virginia in September, 1858, and was appointed Consul General at Venice, where it was hoped that his health would improve. The war between France and Austria soon broke out, his labors and anxieties were increased and in April, 1860, his illness became serious. On June 9, 1860, he died of an apoplectic stroke, “an utter break up of mind preceding the end” as Lever wrote. He was buried in Venice—some accounts say in the Lido cemetery, but the monument, erected by the English residents in Venice, is in the Protestant portion of the cemetery of St. Michele, which is on an island not far from the Lido. Laurence Hutton, in his _Literary Landmarks of Venice_, refers to a vague tradition among the older alien residents that he was buried in the Lido, where, Hutton says, there are a few very ancient stones and monuments marking the graves of foreign visitors to Venice, none of them seeming to be of a later date than the middle of the eighteenth century. But Sir Francis Vincent, the last British Ambassador to the Venetian Republic, is buried there. Mr. Hutton adds that the stone in St. Michele is “a tablet blackened by time, broken and hardly decipherable”; but when I saw it in the summer of 1906 it was only slightly discolored, and not broken at all. It showed no evidence of restoration, and was blackened only as much as much as might be expected of a stone forty-five years old in a climate like that of Venice. The epitaph, written by Walter Savage Landor, is absolutely distinct and easily read.
“George Payne Rainford James.
British Consul General in the Adriatic.
Died in Venice, on the 9th day of June, 1860.
His merits as a writer are known wherever the English language is, and as a man they rest on the hearts of many.
A few friends have erected this humble and perishable monument.”
Hutton attempts to give the epitaph in full but makes an unaccountable error in substituting “heads” for “hearts.” It is another illustration of the ill will of the fates that even on his tombstone his name should be inscribed incorrectly. “_Rainford_” is doubtless the mistake of the Italian who prepared the monument.[35]
Mr. J. A. Hamilton, in the _Dictionary of National Biography_, says: “An epitaph, in terms of somewhat extravagant eulogy, was written by Walter Savage Landor.” The epitaph, which I copied word for word, scarcely deserves Mr. Hamilton’s censure. Surely there is nothing extravagant about it. I regret that in such a valuable work as the _Dictionary_, the account of James is so slight, perfunctory, and in many respects inaccurate. It could have been made much better, and it is in marked contrast with most of the biographical sketches included in that admirable compendium.